


What was never meant to be

by crazinessinsured



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, M/M, Talk of Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 01:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11174442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazinessinsured/pseuds/crazinessinsured
Summary: Starts at the very beginning of Season 3, with the Proposal and the  eventuality everything  will spiral until Johnlock.





	1. The Proposal that never actually took place.

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing, parts of the first chapter are taken directly from the first episode but I will endevor for the rest to not be so cannonical.

It was a normal day, except it wasn’t not given what he had in store. Things were finally beginning to look up, the last two years having been spent completely and utterly away in his own head. Going about his life, half alive and lost to his grief over his best friend.

6 months ago, he met the women that he knew he was going to marry, Mary Morstan. He’d met her at work and they had hit it off right away, she was wonderful a breath of fresh air, beautiful and almost clever enough, almost. 

It was like having a best friend and a lover, something which he found had been missing was companionship. Within two months they had started living together, having fallen into a relatively easy routine and now here he was about to propose at some fancy restaurant up in London, then they would get married and he would have someone to spend the rest of his life with. 

He’d gone to see Mrs Hudson earlier on in the week, to visit, to tell her about his plan to ask Mary. In a way he almost regretted going, it was almost as if to say goodbye a second tiem. A final farewell to his old life before he embarked on his new one.

He checked himself once over in the mirror, he looked decent he decided, before grabbing his dinner jacket, keys and wallet. He got half way down the road before he had remembered that he’d left the ring in its box in bedside cabinet, under a false bottom next to his gun. Which meant that he had to run to get it so he wouldn’t miss his reservation, this in turn made him flustered and irritated, things already were decidedly not off to the best of starts.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was only when he was sitting down waiting in the restaurant later on for Mary; who’d decided to get ready at a friend’s house. “We’ve got to keep some mystery alive, especially this early on”, had been her reasoning before slipping away to shower before work, did the nerves start to kick in.

He ordered a large glass of red wine and began to sip it slowly before deciding that sipping it wasn’t working and he jugged the whole thing back absent-mindedly while try to get recommendations on what bottle of champagne would be best suited to the occasion, from a flamboyant waiter with a heavy French accent.

After the waiter had disappeared almost as quickly as he had arrived, he found himself playing with the ring box, working out which way was best, putting it on the table to be seen by both parties or to go down on one knee as was tradition. He was so caught up in his thoughts he almost did not notice Mary arriving.

“Sorry that took so long” she said, touching his arm lightly in a comforting manner as she moved around the table towards her seat.

“You okay? She asked noticing John’s uncomfortable expression and the red stained empty glass standing innocently on the table.

“Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine” he said looking at her and trying to sound believable, the meaning of his words not quite meeting his eyes. 

“Now, what do you want to ask me?” She said leaning forward. 

“More wine?” He offered try to lighten the tense mood. 

“I’m good with water, thanks” She replied easily looking at him intently. “So?”

John felt a shiver run down his back, “So”, he continued feeling more comfortable all of a sudden with adrenaline flooding his veins.“Mary listen, I know it hasn’t been long and I know we haven’t known each other for a long time”, he swallowed.

“Go on”, She pushed, seeing his nerves and his scepticism.

“Yes I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me. And meeting you, yeah meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened”.

“I agree” she said knowingly.  
“What?” He said bewilder at the blasé nature of her statement.

“I agree, I’m the best thing that could have happened to you”. John laughed, it was typical of Mary. To make him forget what his worries and fears were with one easy swoop. 

“Sorry,” she continued, a look of guilt crossing her face.

“Well, no, it’s, um so if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um” He cleared his throat, wanting to get his proposal out clearly. If you could see your way to-”

“Sir, you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to you liking” the waiter said interrupting John, not seeming to notice that he was in the middle of something important. “It has all the qualities of the old, with the colours of the new.”

“No, sorry, not now. Please.” John bit out, annoyed at being interrupted but Mary was biting her lip in amusement at the whole thing trying not to laugh at the oblivious French waiter.

“Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers,” the French waiter continued ignoring John’s protests. “Suddenly one is aware of staring into the face of an old friend.

“No, look, seriously, could you just..?” John suddenly found himself unable to continue his sentence having finally looked at the waiter properly.It was like being hit with a ton of bricks and being dunked under water, both at once. He was drowning gasping for air, word and anything that would come forth. To breathe and understand.

Everything John could say, anything his brain felt compelled to have him say fell short. Obviously, the face he was staring up into belonged to Sherlock.


	2. Practise is in session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From here on out, not cannon.

John laid in bed, it was 3 o’clock in the morning, next to Mary who was sound asleep. Where he should have been, but couldn’t quite reach, anger still swimming in his veins.

 

At having been lied to, at having grieved and lived half alive for two years only to find out that he was wasting his time and energy because Sherlock **bloody** Holmes was alive!  Of course he was! Sherlock die? Never! He should be so lucky.

 

Sherlock would outlive death, trying to prove the world he was right. To roll over and die so easily didn’t fit the Sherlock he knew. The Sherlock he knew, would have never have jumped off Bart’s hospital roof not while most of Britain were believing the _wrong thing_.

 

And yet, it was only knowing that he was alive that allowed him to see the truth. It was as if he’d been looking at everything through a thick fog and that was it was suddenly clearing.

 

He wanted to feel relieved but all he could feel was anger and a familiar emotion that he didn’t quite want to focus on but that his many sessions in therapy had helped him identify. Hurt. He was hurting and yet Sherlock, his friend, someone who’d been his whole world was alive and yet he was hurt.

 

Of course, that mere monumental lie would have made anyone angry and upset but for John it was the lack of trust that was demonstrated by John not being aware of his being _not dead_ that seemed to hurt all the more. He supposed he should not have been surprised, for a while it was though John himself had ceased to live. To exist.

 

Yet as the days and nights wore on he found himself being more alive but not awake in the way he had been during the war or with Sherlock.

In the beginning after Sherlock’s death it was almost as if he was back in his tiny flat that he had shared with only himself at the very beginning of his discharge from the army. Sitting alone, in the dark with no company but his gun. Just as he had been once before but this time there was no Sherlock to drag him out of his stupor.

 

In time things got better but dreams of Sherlock’s death and the war continued to haunt him still and it was to those dreams that he fell asleep to greet.

 

* * *

 

Eventually he’d nodded off and he awoke at the usual time, alarm clock blaring, grumpily he got out of bed and headed for the on-suite.  Mary passed by him, having rested pleasantly and began her own morning routine that had been perfected after months of living at their shared home.

 

John felt like the undead looking into the bathroom mirror, like last night’s revelations had picked him and shaken him so badly that his brain was numb and mush. That some creature had brought him back from the dead, just to toy with him, much like a cat with a mouse. Except this cat was called Sherlock and it was very much real.

 

He eventually found the strength to get ready, dressed and about to leave. Having told Mary that he would rather bike it to the surgery instead of getting a lift. She looked concerned briefly before conceding that if they were going to get married that he would need to tone up. He laughed at her attempt to joke with him but it felt hallow in his throat and it showed in her eyes.

 

He couldn’t bear to be around at the moment, he was quite content to be lost in his own thoughts. Should he go and see Sherlock? To hear what he had tried to explain last night or should he let it go? Or should he stay angry?

 

The answer to that was decided by Sherlock. Whom he found waiting inside the surgery. As a patient.

 

John sighed and turned to Mary who was smirking like the cat got the cream. “He’s your 9 o’clock” she said with a knowing smile, eyes drawn to the missing moustache, making a mental note to tease John about it later.

 

John walked into his office and sunk into his chair and rubbed his face with his hands in frustration at Sherlocks actions. It was so typical of him to just assume that John would want to see him, both last night and now after all he did. What annoyed John the most was both Sherlock and Mary seemed to think that it was okay, it wasn’t.

 

There was a knock at the door and John yelled to come in. In walked Sherlock Holmes, without a care in the world and he dropped down with all the worlds grace into the chair opposite John and stared intently.

 

“Case”. He stated as if expecting John to understand what he meant.

 

“Excuse me?” John whispered in disbelieve.

 

“There’s a case, I need your assistance” Sherlock said nonchalantly while staring at his phone.

 

“Are you kidding? You leave for two years!? After jumping of a building! Interrupt my dinner dat- proposal! And you expect me to go on a bloody case with you! Sherlock! I’m at fucking work you wanker!” John finished, his voice gradually escalating throughout his rant.

 

Sherlock was about to answer but was interrupted by a knock at the door, without waiting for an answer, Mary popped her head around the door.

 

“Everything alright?” She chimed, shooting a concerned look at John whos face was red.

 

“Fine!” John barked, fists clenched at his side resisting the urge to swing for Sherlock again. It wouldn’t do for Sherlock to walk out with a black eye in front of patients.

 

“Right then” She said, backing out of the room slowly, never quite taking her eyes off the two men.

 

John turned to look at Sherlock and breathed deeply. “I’ll talk to you at lunch and not before. You can wait outside for me. You made me wait for two years, you do some stewing” John fell back into his chair waiting for Sherlock to exit.

 

“But Doctor Watson, I have a possible broken nose”.

 

John shot him a glare and chucked his notebook at Sherlock who took it full in the face. He shot his own look, not quite a glare but not a smile either before walking out as calmly as he’d walked in.

 

John Watson was decidedly no longer looking forward to his left over kebab.

 

 

 

 

 

  


 


End file.
